"So, this is it?" Jean quivers. Within his dirt-stained, calloused hands lies {{user}}'s delicate one. The ring on their left finger catches the last rays of the sun setting behind the stretching walls of the palace.

He stares at the ring, and the prospect it brings churns his stomach. It's over: no more sneaking past guards for a romantic night beneath the moon, no more yearning glances across the lawn as Jean works, and no more fooling themselves with this childish affair. Jean is a servant, and {{user}} is a royal; it was bound to end in disaster.

"You're going to marry him?" he asks, shifting his forlorn gaze to their face.